Into the Griffon's Nest
by insertappropropriatenamehere
Summary: Odahviing makes a "wrong turn" heading from Sovngarde and lands on a blighted battlefield. The Wardens are rather confused. Loghain is beyond pissed. Odahviing refuses to explain. And the Dragonborn would just like to get her destiny over with, thank you very much.
1. Chapter 1: You Know That Thing Where

Disclaimer: Guess what I don't own? Credit goes to Bethesda Game Studios and Michael Kirkbride.

* * *

Not the Introductions You Were Hoping For

* * *

In retrospect, it all began when Odahviing crashed into an ogre. Amanya picked herself up and dusted off her armor. "Where are we-" she began.

"YOL… TOOR SHUL!" Odahviing roared, incinerating something small, dark, and not at all a Falmer behind her. Amanya dragged her blade from its sheath, charging up a summoning in her other hand.

"What is going on?" she shouted at him. "Where are we?! What did you do? I _knew_ I should have just let Tsun send me back!"

Odahviing only Shouted again, lashing out and clearing some room from the both of them. Amanya stumbled over the prone body of a man in ornate armor as she moved closer to him. The man moaned; Amanya briefly debated whether or not he would be worth the strength it would take to drag him with her, then took him. He could always answer questions.

"They are retreating," she noted, peering over Odahviing's shoulder. The dragon shifted uncomfortably when she propped her burden against his shoulder. "And… so is the other army?"

Odahviing Shouted at the other army whenever it attempted to close. It wasn't a good solution, but it gave them both time to adjust. Amanya ran her fingers over the man's armor, pulling at the buckles she could see. It wasn't too hard to guess at their configuration, and soon she had him down to his padding. She prepped a hasty curative spell to stabilize him, cursing at the magicka cost. Restoration had never been her strong suit.

"Hurry, Dovahkiin," Odahviing rumbled. Was that a hint of nervousness in his tone? Amanya wouldn't bet on his chances against an entire army, either.

"Patience, Odahviing," she snapped. "We need answers, and someone to give them."

"Saraan uth. As you wish." Odahviing Shouted again, a desperate warning.

Amanya could already hear distant shouting and the stamp of armored feet on bloody mud. She ran a judicious eye over her erstwhile patient, decided he probably wasn't going to die in the next few hours or so, and tugged on Odahviing's horn. "I'm ready," she called. "Take us up."

The first few hundred feet of altitude were interesting, so to speak. What magicka hadn't been drained by the healing spell was swiftly depleted when she was forced to raise shields to fend off an entire army's worth of arrows, and soon she was reduced to clinging desperately to Odahviing and her prisoner as they attempted to dodge catapulted boulders.

"Aim for the towers!" Amanya cried, pointing. Arrows whistled past her outstretched hand. Hopefully, it would take the army some time to scale the ruins, enough time for them to figure out what had gone wrong and return to Tamriel.

To be fair, they weren't expecting to fly directly into the army's base camp and the entirety of said army's reserve forces.

Odahviing slammed into the tower, backwinging frantically. Amanya nearly came off. He scrabbled for purchase on slick stone before coiling himself around the top – and around a small platoon of soldiers gathered around a catapult. Odahviing shook his head, and she slid off numbly.

_Today has not been my day,_ Amanya mused as she stared into the angry faces of far too many hostile soldiers. She felt more numbed than surprised; it had been a long, long day. Her helmet limited her peripheral vision, but she ignored the urge to take it off. Better to suffer a surprise attack than take an arrow or blade somewhere lethal.

"Odahviing, I know you had a hand in this mess," she murmured. "And I want answers. Any of them, all of them, as soon as possible. I know you had a hand in taking us off-course. You would never have appeared in Sovngarde otherwise. Know this; I will find my way back to Nirn, to Tamriel, despite your machinations. Somehow." She had once been a scholar and then an inquisitor before she'd become a warrior. She would find a way. She had to.

The tower reverberated with the force of a misaimed boulder, and she fell off her dragon. Or had Odahviing unseated her deliberately? It was hard to tell. Odahviing had clearly had enough of _here_ and launched himself into the air once more. He'd taken her prisoner too, the damned fool of a dragon. Amanya stared up at his retreating form, half-disbelievingly.

Someone shouted something at her in an unfamiliar language. Amanya snarled at him viciously, her patience long spent. "Tamrielic, you lot! Do you speak it?! At all! Or any cursed variation thereof!"

No, no they didn't. Amanya stepped back; her foot hit rubble and loose stone. There was no way out. No safe way, at least. She scanned the soldiers in front of her. There. In the back, a dark-haired man giving orders. If she could get to him-

A winged shadow fell over her. A roar cut the air. Air snapped. Her world dissolved into fire, and back. Something picked her up and pinned her down, and shook. There were teeth everywhere. She caught a glimpse of rising dawn and horrified faces before she hit dressed stone.

Blackness.

* * *

Her head throbbed. Her mouth was distressingly dry. Everything below her neck was pain or numbness. She didn't bother trying to open her eyes, much less move.

She drifted.

Snatches of conversation filtered through her consciousness, angry and incomprehensible. They were probably important. She hurt too much to care.

Silence, interspersed by meaningless sounds. The heavy lightness of massive blood loss. The occasional dribble of fluid down her throat.

She woke up coughing.

Light flared behind closed eyelids; someone had lit a lamp. People were arguing somewhere above her, and probably over her as well. Ha ha. _Not funny. Where is Odahviing? That traitor. (eat him, devour him for his foolishness) Ugh. Not now. I have to-_

Someone shook her shoulder, jostling her wounds. She screamed in pain. Someone cursed, and the first person shook harder. She screamed louder, just to anger them. Someone else shouted at her, and she croaked out every profanity she'd encountered in every language she knew. She tried to flail at them as well, only to discover she was well and truly tied down.

She finally wrenched her eyelids open. Three humans stood over her; two dark-haired men, one of them the commander from earlier, and an old woman. The commander was still holding her shoulder, and arguing with the other. The old woman ignored them and leaned over, examining Amanya's eyes. Amanya gave them all her best disdainful look, which was rather marred by the fact that her entire right side felt too swollen to move. The old woman simply grinned cheekily back and poked the two men with her staff, drawing them off to the side beyond what they obviously thought was earshot for a meaningless conversation Amanya couldn't understand anyways.

Amanya closed her eyes again, trying to recall lessons from her childhood. Her tutor had mentioned transliteration spells once, often used to communicate with lesser races who were not blessed with an understanding of Altmeris.

_To alter the fabric of reality, you must first convince yourself that reality is false,_ her tutor had demanded. Her words had made no sense even then. _Convince yourself that reality is false, and reality will shift to suit your will. Change the world, and this has always been so. Your mind is the catalyst, your will the channel. Your magicka will come through. You will be what you perceive yourself to be._

Well, that was vague and unhelpful. Amanya wasn't sure she had enough magicka to cast anything, in any case. Her body had co-opted most of it to facilitate her healing. It was time to consider her options – well, her only option thus far, and her least favorite; waiting.

The overly cheerful old woman came back, a twinkle in her eye and a cup in her hands. Amanya was fairly certain she was only still doing it to be annoying. She propped it up and held it to Amanya's lips. Amanya drank, trying not to feel supremely helpless.

Well, terrible first impressions with the locals aside, there were always benefits to having an ally. Especially a healer ally, if indeed that was what the woman was.

"Th-thanks," she slurred, trying to force her lips to form the right syllables. They mostly wanted to sit around being several times their actual size. In any case, the woman seemed to understand, and made a cheerfully assenting noise as she left.

Well, there was nothing for it. Amanya lay back and tried to remember how to comprehend alien languages.

* * *

_Well, of course I can understand them,_ Amanya mused. _In the end, all languages are the same. Meaning and intent, wrapped around pretty – and not so pretty – sounds._ Her magicka flashed and swelled around her, before settling into her mind like an old, familiar blanket.

"Testing, testing," she tried. It sounded like Tamrielic to her. Damn. Had it not worked?

The old woman from earlier practically ran over to her bedside, staff pointed towards her face. Any trace of cheerfulness was gone. This woman was dangerous; Amanya knew it, read it in the stern lines on her face, the steady stance and readied magicka. Her estimation of this human rose several notches. No use in showing that, though.

"A staff? Really?" Amanya asked. The old woman's eyes widened with surprise, and she stepped backwards. Well, perhaps the spell had worked. It had to have done _something_, as flashy as it was.

"You speak Fereldan?" the woman asked, still wary.

"Transliteration spell," Amanya corrected. What in Azura's name was Fereldan? It sounded distinctly Mannish. "I can understand speech, and you can understand me too, I suppose, for the next… I don't really know how long. I shall have to test that."

"Who are you?" the woman continued. The staff lowered by just a fraction.

Amanya considered. _Dragonborn. Archmage. Thief. Murderer. Liar. Traitor. Justiciar. Someday, Anaiwe, my daughter, you will be one of the best of us. Do not disappoint me._ "You can call me Amanya."

The woman graced her with a polite smile. "And you may call me Wynne."


	2. Interlude: On Amanya

Author's Note: It's come to my attention that I was highly unclear on some parts of the first chapter. Sorry about that. Here's some stuff that should clear up some of the confusion. I'd include more, but it would spoil a plot twist or two that I have planned, sorry.

* * *

Interlude: On Amanya

* * *

To Lillandris:

I have come across a particularly different problem. This one is a female Altmer of indeterminate age who goes by the title "Amanya of Winterhold", patronymic unknown. It has come to our attention that she has claimed the titles "Archmage of Winterhold College" in defiance of our now-deceased agent Ancano and, more worryingly, "Dragonborn," perhaps even the Dragonborn of Nordic legend. Reports of her Voice have been confirmed. Surely you remember what happened to her predecessor? We also believe she holds ties to both the Greybeards and the remnants of the Blades, whose location is currently being deciphered by my agents, and to the local Thieves' Guild as well. How very Mannish of her.

She yet has traces of an Alinor accent, and attached is an ident-sample one of my men managed to take. I require any and all information you can find on her. Please respond swiftly.

Elenwen

* * *

To Elenwen:

If indeed that dragon was Alduin and he has reappeared then time is short and we must proceed with haste. The World-Eater cannot be allowed to bring up the next kalpa with our work still unfinished. You know what to do.

Your request to search our records for traces of one "Amanya of Winterhold" was a surprising one. Of course, no record exists of such a person, but from the personal trace you managed to send we were able to extrapolate her identity into that of one "Anaiwe of Alinor, anon Alinor". The news of her continued existence is distressing indeed; it was previously believed and even recorded within our databanks that she died valiantly during that abominable war with the Mede Empire. In concordance, we had retired her meme-spoor and removed her from all active tracking rosters. Anaiwe of Alinor died honorably; this Dragonborn of yours is merely Amanya of Winterhold, with no ties to the Dominion.

From your reports it has become clear that this Amanya has suborned our ways and become a Mannish, perhaps even Lorkhanic, Champion. Indeed, her blasphemous ties to the Padomaics, namely the Prince Azura, are well-documented. These discoveries have sparked again old debates long-buried; there is yet no consensus, but all have agreed that this state of affairs cannot continue. Her ties with the Talos cannot be tolerated.

You are hereby charged with the task of retrieving this heretic for the good of the Thalmor. Upon retrieval the subject is to be returned to Alinor, where she will face trial for high treason to her ancestry and her role as one "Dragonborn of Akatosh" will be made clear. Failure to comply will result in your trial for high treason and incompetence, followed by death by zero-sum. We cannot allow the Voice of men to be heard once more.

Attached are my annotated remnants of the subject's file and a reconstruction of what we could retrieve of a message we discovered to have been sent shortly before her presumed death.

For the Thalmor!

Anuielector Subprime Lillandris

* * *

**Name:** Anaiwe

**Ancestry:** 3604-28-Septim-AAD-2.0 [_that can't be right, can it?_]

**Date of Birth:** 21 Evening Star, 3E401

**Date of Death:** 28th Rain's Hand, 4E174 (presumed) [_obviously falsified_]

**Parentage:** L-

[_record corrupted – my apologies_]

**Appearance:** Aldmeri Standard 04, subgradient none [_indeed, she looks quite like you, wouldn't you say?_]

**Traits:** sdf;#T^&!% ^*!%&AS !#

[_more corruption, I'm afraid_]

**Status:** acceptable

**Conditioning:** standard, reconditioned thrice [_Thrice? Seems a bit much, even for the most fanatical._]

**Clearance:** Justiciar-standard, Cyrod [_this is no longer the case, not that it matters to us now_]

**Talent:** mage-trained, conjuration focus, sword-adept [_hmm, it seems that her ties to the daedra extend quite a bit earlier than we thought, perhaps?_]

**Assignment:** recommended for Justiciar work, Cyrodiil sector 1, under the command of

[_the rest of the file appears to have been lost_]

* * *

My Lo-[lord?];

I hope this message finds you well. We have bypassed many of the [Ayleid] ruins; many of their industries and necropolises are still active even now. We lost Amanya and Meril while hunting a rogue band of Imperial soldiers in Fanacasecul; Imperials attacked Amanya, and undead took Meril. We have not seen him since, and presume he is dead or worse. Their failings [reflect] poorly on me. We march upon the White-Gold [in] the morning. I cannot shake off this feeling of uneasiness. There is something strange about [White-Gold], the same oddness that I felt around Crystal-Like-Law and Ada-mantia. You will tell no one of this.

We have been commanded to storm […] feel this singing in my head. I cannot stop it; by Auriel it will not stop! I do not know what is wrong with me, but I fear that if this continues I shall go mad and shame my ancestors. I do not know how much longer I can last.

Forever loyal,

Anaiwe


	3. Chapter 2: The Plot Appears

AN: Please review. I accept all reviews. Please review. I know my writing skills are rusty. I don't know what I need to improve or my readers want to see if you don't tell me, so as they say; questions, comments, concerns, insults, or accusations?

Disclaimer: I own quite a few things. None of them are the Elder Scrolls series. Or the Dragon Age series.

* * *

Chapter 2: Lack of Diplomacy

* * *

Amanya healed. She'd been grabbed and thrown by a dragon; not Odahviing, but some local beast called the "Archdemon". Her wounds itched abominably while they knitted into long ropy scars encircling her torso, and the lack of activity only made it worse. Some time during the third day Wynne had untied her, saying she could now take care of herself, but she remained confined to her tent. Just as well, she mused, but it didn't make lying around any less boring.

The Fereldan army went to battle each night. Every morning they returned, tired, fewer, and if not triumphant then at the very least not defeated. In the quiet early hours after the fighting and before the troops' return Amanya wondered how long they could last. Wynne was often absent, tending to soldiers with the other healers. She asked Amanya no questions, but Amanya could see the burden the healer's efforts put on her.

"You have questions," she said flatly one day. "You don't think this war of yours is going well, and you're beginning to wonder if perhaps I have a solution to all your problems. My dragon, perhaps, or some esoteric knowledge to drive away these Darkspawn of yours. No, don't try to deny it, I've seen it in your face these past few days."

Wynne sat down and cradled her head in her hands wearily. "You know what it is like to go to war, then."

"Yes." Mostly small skirmishes, and only a few pitched battles, but war was tiring. Draining. Armies needed rest; here, they had none.

"Teyrn Loghain, the current commander of our troops, estimates that we can hold out for a month, perhaps, at most. He has dispatched the Grey Wardens to our allies to try to garner support, but reinforcements take time to arrive.

There is also the matter of where you have hidden King Cailan; some of the banns will not follow Loghain while Cailan's death is unconfirmed, and he needs their support if he wishes to hold this fortress. You may not care, but Cailan was a popular king, and quite possibly the only one who could unite Ferelden to defeat this Blight. Thanks to your actions, he is gone now, and Ostagar, it seems, has become the site of Fereldan's last stand. I don't expect you to understand half of what I just said, translation spell or no, but that is the current situation."

Amanya puzzled through the unfamiliar names. "That man I found earlier… he rules Ferelden?" she asked uncertainly. Well, that would help explain her status as everyone's least favorite mer. "And you think I hold him hostage, which is why you haven't simply killed me yet."

"Teyrn Loghain certainly thinks so," Wynne admitted. "But your dragon did not stay to defend you against the archdemon, and by all accounts you were furious when it left."

"He betrayed me," Amanya said simply. That was all. She would find Odahviing, and ask him why, and then she would eat his soul because he deserved nothing more. "If I knew I would have told you already; it doesn't benefit me-"

"So you have no idea where Fereldan's king is?" a furious voice boomed, and that commander from earlier stormed in, an equally angry woman coming in on his heels. Wynne straightened into a salute, almost knocking over her chair. "Tell me, then, _knife ears_, why I should keep you alive."

Knife ears? What kind of ridiculous insult was that supposed to be?

"Teyrn Loghain, I presume. You _will_ keep me alive," Amanya said firmly, weighing her options. "You will keep me alive, because only I can return King Cailan – and because I hold the key to your victory." Hopefully. She'd think of something. Well… hopefully.

Loghain certainly didn't seem to think so. If anything, he looked angrier. "You-" he spat out, before his second in command put her hand on his shoulder and guided him out.

Wynne was no longer sitting; Amanya dragged herself out of the bed, feeling a bit left out.

"I think that went rather well," she mused.

There was no hiding the fact anymore; she was drastically uninformed about everything in this world. "I don't think the Teyrn will be back any time soon. I need information, Wynne, if I'm to do anything. I need you to tell me everything you can about Ferelden and this Blight of yours."

* * *

"-and that is why we have Blights," Wynne finished. Amanya poured her a cup of water, pushing down a pang of dismay.

The possibility that she was merely lost somewhere on Nirn was no longer highly unlikely; it was impossible. This current situation was more akin to becoming lost in some Oblivion realm, except with no Prince that she knew of. Perhaps an abandoned realm then. There was a sun in the sky, so to speak, although it did not radiate magicka; there were stars, even the turning of day and night. There were men and mer and even many of the animals were familiar, although the local flora was mostly exotic.

Returning to Tamriel would be an incredible feat; returning to Tamriel while hiding her intent from Wynne was nearly impossible. Not to mention, conjurer or not, Amanya hated Oblivion-traipsing.

"I can't believe you have only the one moon," she said instead. "What happened to the other one?"

Wynne choked on her water. "We have only ever had one moon, Amanya."

"Not my point. I'm useless here," Amanya groaned. "I need some action. Avoid Loghain." Find something to deal with her frustration, perhaps. She could probably manage to sneak out of this ridiculously confining tent and into a battle or two tonight. Perhaps even away from the stupidly suspicious Ferelden army as well. Her ancestors-blessed skills were doing no good simply sitting around, and the sooner she could get a grip on this strange world the sooner she could leave it. Perhaps the Tevinter mages…

"I believe that if we can put you under the authority of the Grey Wardens, that would free you to join the battle," the other mage suggested, unaware of the line of Amanya's thoughts.

"What?"

"I believe that if you affiliate yourself with the Grey Wardens somehow, that would free you to join the battle," Wynne repeated. "In fact, I've already taken the opportunity to ask."

Wynne produced a letter, laden with heavy wax seals and a ponderous sort of formality, and .

Amanya broke the seal and held the parchment up to the light.

"I can't read this," she said. She flipped the parchment upside down. It didn't help make the writing more comprehensible, but at least it looked like a letter now. "Well, I can see the letters, and understand them, but the words they form don't make sense."

So much for her translation spell.

"It's a letter from the current head of the Grey Wardens, a rather nice young man named Duncan." Wynne pointed to a signature scrawled at the bottom of the document. Amanya stared at it, trying to decipher anything that resembled 'Duncan' from the letters. They remained stubbornly obtuse. "He's asking for a meeting to talk about your… 'unfortunate incident' with the Archdemon, as he puts it, as soon as you are available."

"By all means," Amanya said with more enthusiasm than she could remember mustering in her entire time here. She refolded the letter and tossed it onto the desk. "I am available. I am _beyond_ available. Let's go. I want to do something."

Wynne sighed. "You know that you've made things very complicated in the short time you have been here? Many are still trying to convince themselves you aren't about to sacrifice us all to the Archdemon, or turn us into toads."

"Yes, I do that," Amanya retorted dryly, peering under the bed. Nothing there but dust and dirt. The chest held only simple bandages and fewer pastes in small glass jars than when she had last checked. "Complicate things, I mean. I don't turn people into toads."

"Have you seen my effects? I had some things on me that I really could use right now." Not the least of which was her entire stash of magicka replenishing potions. Her magicka didn't seem to want to regenerate as it usually did, replenishing itself fully only when she slept, and it was beginning to make her uneasy. She would have to look into that. _The very nature of magic in this world could be different. For all I know, the sun here could just be a source of light, Auriel forbid. _

"The Teyrn ordered your belongings put away until we could determine whether or not you were a threat," Wynne said mildly. "They aren't in this tent, so you may as well stop looking. In the meantime, I took the chance to ask the quartermaster for some replacements." The healer handed Amanya a set of clothes from her pack; Amanya shook them out.

The shirt was plain-cut white fabric, coarse and loosely woven. The skirt was much the same, except for the faded greenish color. There was even an apron. An apron! And everything was almost child-sized compared to her. Amanya held the shirt up to herself. It was nowhere close to fitting.

"I would rather go naked," she announced distastefully, tossing the clothes onto the bed.

Wynne saw the look on her face and chuckled ruefully. "Oh dear. I told the quartermaster you were an elf; I did not quite realize just how tall you are." She refolded the clothes and packed them away. "I don't think anyone has anything your size."

Amanya was beginning to think the woman was never fazed. "This is ridiculous. Are all the local elves short in stature?"

"I'm afraid so."

That would mean there were no Altmer around. She'd have thought that at least Altmer would be a constant throughout the various realms. They were the eldest race, after all, pure-blooded in the image of the old Aldmer and before them the Ehlnofey. But if the only mer here were Bosmer – well, they were considered inferior for a _reason_. Practically human, the lot of them. And they simply _lived_ under the rule of man?

"Check my packs, then, wherever you've stored them," Amanya demanded. "I have clothes in there. And while you're at it, could you get someone to pick up some of my magicka potions? They're in the little blue bottles. I want to be able to cast the transliteration spell as often as I possibly can."

"How demanding," Wynne chided, then crossed the tent and left.

Amanya waited. She sat back down on the bed, trying not to think about Wynne's disapproval. She was Altmer, recent lapse of proper decorum aside; she shouldn't need the approval of a mere human, even if that human were a mage.

The silence stretched on.

She was a mess, wasn't she? Physically as well as mentally. Amanya ran her fingers through her hair, combing it into some semblance of normality, and picked up the pitcher of water speculatively. Hopefully Wynne wouldn't miss a few bandages.

By the time a small mer, too human-pink to be Bosmer, barged in, Amanya was working on binding her chest into something appropriately flat.

"Delivery, ma'am!" he cried. Amanya quickly tied off her bindings and intercepted his bundle before he ran off. She felt only cloth and leather; clothes, then, and not armor.

"Aha!" she cried triumphantly. She shook out a familiar black-and-gold overcoat. _Well, rubbish. I thought I'd gotten rid of this already. _

Amanya began dressing in the uniform of a Thalmor Justiciar.

The choice of clothing did make sense, she admitted to herself, if only to someone without any knowledge of Tamrielic politics. All her other apparel were either heavily enchanted robes or highly modified and decidedly lethal pieces of armor. By contrast the small enchantments woven into the embroidered leather would have seemed inconsequential. Irrelevant. Perhaps even unnoticeable. She fought down her distaste and tried not to remember what was left of their previous owner. She left the hood down.

It was easy to fall back into old habits. Amanya straightened up, pressed her hair flat, and glared disdainfully at the tent flap.

"Behold, the glory of the Thalmor," she muttered contemptuously. "The more fools, they."

"Shall we go now?" Wynne inquired, entering. "I do believe we have business elsewhere."

* * *

Amanya stepped out, blinking, into the sunlight. Her first impression of Ferelden was much the same as her first impression of Skyrim: men. Men everywhere.

An elf ran by, clutching a pair of swords that, judging by his grip, he had no idea how to use. A preacher on a wooden platform rambled on about blessings from the local Maker-god, brandishing his book, with no shrine in sight. There were dog pens some distance away, surprisingly quiet considering their occupants. One of the men in the tent earlier was by a bonfire, lecturing a pair of enthusiastic new recruits. Her hand clenched, and she realized she had instinctively reached for a nonexistent blade.

People were beginning to stare.

"This way," Wynne called. Amanya drew herself into an appropriately haughty pose.

"I'm ready," she said quietly.

The walk to the bonfire - and her appointment - was nerve-wracking for someone used to hiding herself. Everywhere she looked she met eyes that stared back, distrusting if not outright hostile. Or disdainful. Every dark stare was a potential assassin; every glare was a rioter-in-waiting. Every turned back could have been a Thalmor informant, and any of the quiet lurkers in the shadows could be worse. Amanya suddenly and vehemently missed the quiet acceptance she'd gained in Whiterun.

Wynne seemed unaffected. Amanya wished she could emulate the other woman's calm, then hated herself for needing to consider the idea.

The crowd thinned as they approached the bonfire; it seemed that the Grey Wardens were generally feared or shunned, despite Wynne's obvious admiration for them. The dark-haired man in half-plate seemed like the commander; he was lecturing a pair of what Tolfdir would call "bright-eyed young things". That was probably Duncan, then.

Duncan turned and waved her over; his was the most welcoming face she'd seen since she'd gotten here. The pair across from him were staring at her with various degrees of curiosity and interest. Amanya eyed them back.

The man on her left was the taller of the pair, blond and friendly-looking. He wore splint mail as if it weighed no more than simple clothing, carried a sword and shield slung across his back, and grinned cheerfully at Amanya. She wondered if he were perhaps a little touched in the head. People never grinned cheerfully at her.

His companion was an androgynous figure in heavy, canary-colored robes and a ridiculous blue cap who watched her calmly. Another mage, then, and probably not touched in the head.

"Duncan, I presume?" she asked politely, extending her hand before realizing it might stand for something different in Ferelden.

"Indeed," Duncan said cheerfully, reaching out and clasping her hand firmly. "You would be Amanya, then. I hear you've an answer to our Blight problem? We'd be glad for anything you could contribute; I'm afraid our numbers are no longer what they used to be."

Well _of course_ her desperate suggestion was going to come back and bite her.

"What can I expect from the darkspawn?" she stalled. "Why does Wynne believe that only the Grey Wardens can stop this Blight? Surely anyone can kill a dragon?" Dragonborn aside, of course, but the dragons here didn't appear to be fallen Jills.

The Grey Wardens' faces became shuttered. _A touchy subject,_ Amanya realized. _There's something they don't want others to know. Well, we can all play at that game. _

She chanced a glance at Wynne. _Wynne doesn't know either. Whatever it is, it must be a dangerous secret, if they guard it so carefully. _

Presumably, anyways. Some people had the oddest priorities.

The Grey Wardens were exchanging all-too-familiar looks, and Amanya felt her heart sink. Apparently the secret was just that big, then.

"Alistair and Amell here were just about to head into the Wilds to scout for a bit," Duncan said. "Why don't you head with them? They can brief you during the mission, we can see how you hold up in battle, and you can see how the darkspawn operate."

Amanya had no doubt it would also be easier for the two to dispose of her in the woods. Wynne seemed to pick up on her line of thought, and interjected.

"Then I'm afraid I will have to come as well. Loghain's orders. I'm sure you understand?"

"Your skills as a healer will come in handy," Amanya interjected before the Grey Wardens could refuse. "Thank you for offering."

"And four is a great number for travelling," the blond man, presumably Alistair, said brightly. "Just large enough to attract attention, just small enough to be ambushed. It'll be fun!"

Wonderful. He was definitely touched in the head. Amanya watched as her new traveling companions began jesting with each other and decided that Odahviing was a truly terrible dragon. If this were his revenge, it was a very adequate revenge.

"Have you any weapons?" Duncan asked. "No one should go into the Korcari Wilds unarmed."

"I am an adequate swordswoman," Amanya acknowledged, still eyeing her new teammates. They were not confidence-inspiring. "And I am skilled in the arts of magic, in illusion and conjuration. I also have a firm grasp of mysticism and magical constructs. I have several other talents, but those do not pertain to the art of war and war magic."

"Excellent," Amell grinned. His voice, at least, was undoubtedly masculine. "Another mage!" The others, however, were giving her more reserved looks.

"Conjuration magic?" Duncan asked. "As in summoning spirits?"

"Are we going to wake up one day and find demons nibbling on our toes?" Alistair added.

"I know what I'm doing," Amanya responded crossly. "I've been doing this my entire life. Do you want a demonstration?"

"You should not summon anything in public. The people of Thedas, and especially the Chantry, do not take well to demon-summoning," Wynne suggested.

As if she didn't have enough problems. "Take away my summoning, and you may as well tell me to go naked into battle."

"Magic exists to serve mankind, not rule over him," Wynne argued.

"My magic serves me perfectly well-"

"A demonstration, then. Discreetly, if you could?" Duncan interrupted.

Thank Auriel for reasonable commanders. If all Grey Wardens were like him then perhaps she could learn to work with their order, after all. They certainly were shaping up to be more reasonable than the Blades. Amanya took a deep breath and summoned her will.

Daedra might be animalistic, or human-shaped, but they were in no way mortal, and they in no way thought like mortals. They were hunters. Amanya reached into her mind and remembered the burning _huntmortalfools_ of Dremora, the _sliceburnkill_ of the lesser daedra she summoned into her blades, the _scurryleaphide_ of the incredibly useless scamp.

She opened her mind. Daedric influence filtered in, hot and thick and bitter. She was at once herself and another. She funneled the daedra through her imagined portal to Oblivion and into the bitten-blade framework she had built for it here, into existence.

It did not come.

The daedra's presence hovered in her mind, unwilling to cross through, picking listlessly at the filaments of magicka it was bound in. With a snarl, Amanya forced the spell through. A bright outline flared, a sword-shaped matrix of her magicka, but no foreign consciousness streamed forth to inhabit it. The sword-shape collapsed in a wave of retreating magicka.

"No!" she snarled. "_No!_ Come to me! I command you!"

Her magicka flared again – and collapsed. She rammed her way through the spell again, trying to actualize the whispers of daedric consciousness she _knew_ existed in the back of her mind.

Her spell fizzled. The daedra would not come. She snarled in frustration. This wasn't fair. This _just wasn't fair_. An entire lifetime's work, a century and a half of dedicated study, simply _useless_.

Amanya took a shuddering breath and tried to look calm. In control. Duncan was beginning to look skeptical; Wynne worried.

"No summoning," she confirmed. "My summons will not come quietly, and I will not risk their getting loose." It was a lie, but a convincing one.

So. The daedra she called upon wouldn't, or couldn't, come through to this plane. She wasn't fool enough to try to replace them with unknown local variants. Who knew how this plane connected to the realms of Oblivion, if it did at all? She shouldn't have expected to have been able to simply summon anything, not without proper research into the metaphysics. She supposed she should be glad she could still access and manipulate her magicka.

Amanya scraped the last of her magicka into a tiny flame burning in the center of her palm. "Good enough," she scowled, glaring at her fire. "I can still fight, summons or no summons."

Duncan gave her the benefit of the doubt.


	4. Chapter 3: The Plot Weirdens

AN: Well, here we are again. Sorry for the late chapter. And to answer a few questions: Amanya will not join the Grey Wardens. Her pride wouldn't allow herself to be tainted. The plot will not follow that of Origins. In fact, this chapter is where it starts veering into what I've been planning.

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with Bethesda Game Studios or its parent companies, nor with BioWare and its parent companies. Also I totally cribbed stuff from the _36 Lessons_ and _From the Many-Headed Talos_, so credit to where it's due.

* * *

Chapter 3: Last Stop Before Insanity

* * *

With a grunt, Amanya slid her blade out of the darkspawn's chest, spitting out a mouthful of blood. She poked at the bruising forming around where it had landed a lucky punch.

"This doesn't look so bad," shee commented, looking around. "I was expecting more darkspawn."

"'Expecting more darkspawn,' she says," Alistair mimicked, prodding a charred body with his toe. "What, are these ones not enough?"

"They're stragglers, Alistair," Amell replied. "I think she's referring to the main horde."

"Main horde or no, they can't _all_ just disappear when the sun rises. Where would they go?"

"Underground." Alistair pointed somewhere roughly ahead of them. "Into the old dwarven ruins."

Well, rubbish. Amanya sheathed her swords and looked around. Something wasn't right. "Not much of a challenge, then."

"Let's just find the scouts and go," Amell urged. "I don't like this."

"A reasonable idea," Wynne agreed.

Amanya spotted the problem. "That hawk," she said quietly. "It's been following us ever since we left the gates. It hasn't flown off once. I don't think it's a hawk."

"Morrigan!" Amell bellowed. "Show yourself!"

The hawk launched itself into the air, flipped into a roll, and turned into a young woman. Amanya was impressed.

"Oh, 'tis the Grey Wardens again," Morrigan sighed. "And here I thought I could simply watch you as you passed along, but no, someone had to notice me and rat me out. Is this the part where we converse now? I am not overfond of conversing with strangers."

"An apostate mage, still hiding in these woods?" Wynne asked disapprovingly. "I would have thought your kind would have run off at the first sign of trouble."

"Run off? And go where? Ferelden isn't so kind to apostate mages as you think." Morrigan's gaze sharpened. "And in any case, Mother would not leave. In fact, she told me to speak with you, if I could find you again."

"Your mother? What, does she tell you everything you can do now?" Alistair sniped. "Did you lose what little spine you had when the darkspawn invaded?"

"Not now, Alistair," Amell chided.

"Don't insult her filial piety," Amanya agreed. "It becomes her."

"Filial piety? Do not make me laugh. And so, now we come to the crux of it. Who is this new recruit? She certainly doesn't seem like an average recruit to me."

"I am not a recruit," Amanya denied. "And enough of this. Either tell us where our scouts went or be gone."

"Ah, yes, that." Morrigan pointed south. "I do believe we are headed towards the same destination, then. The scouts you seek were taken, not by the darkspawn, but by a band of apostate mages, some distance away. _I_ was going to speak with them."

"_More_ apostates?" Alistair complained.

"I think you'll find them quite interesting," Morrigan said, and transformed back into a hawk.

"Quite interesting?" Amanya echoed. "That doesn't sound too good. Let's get back to camp."

* * *

The camp was in an uproar when they arrived. Amanya noticed a pillar of smoke rising from the area of the mages' encampment.

"We always miss the fun stuff, it seems," Amell said blandly. "Was that Uldred's tent?"

"Oh dear. It does seem to be, doesn't it?" Wynne agreed. "I wonder what could have happened."

"He didn't by any chance try to read my books, did he?" Most of her texts were harmless enough, but she had picked up a few… oddities the last time she had visited the Thalmor Embassy. Among them had been a mystic text of some importance, judging by the fancy embossing on its cover, but little relevance, given it had been stashed away under one of the beds in the main barracks.

"Your books set people on fire when they read them?" Alistair asked morbidly. _What kind of people would do that sort of thing_ went unspoken.

"Only if you read them improperly," Amanya replied, searching for Duncan. He wasn't by the bonfire. "Otherwise they're perfectly safe."

They found Duncan by the smoldering remains of Uldred's tent. He explained how the mage had been in charge of examining Amanya's effects; she was impressed by the former mage's tenacity.

"Normally you'd have to be able to at least _read_ the book before you hit the self-immolation stage," she commented. "This Uldred must have been one talented mage."

"_Was_ a talented mage," Wynne muttered dubiously.

"Not helping," Alistair muttered.

"So, those scouts of yours? They were taken by apostate mages deep in the Wilds." Might as well get this over and done with.

"Morrigan told us," Amell added.

The shapeshifter's name elicited a response. Duncan sighed and facepalmed as they told him of Morrigan's visit in turns. None of the Fereldens looked pleased at the witch's interference; Amanya wondered why they hadn't done something about her already. Unless…

"Is she trouble?"

"She is an apostate mage living in land overrun by darkspawn. _Of course_ she is trouble." That was almost certainly disdain for the other mage in Wynne's voice.

"Enough," Duncan interrupted. "We still need to find those scouts. Head out again tomorrow. IN the meantime, get some rest. Alistair, Amell, you have tower duty tonight. Wynne, I suppose Amanya is your charge?"

"Just as soon as soon as I retrieve my book," Amanya promised dryly, heading toward the mages' enclave. "Wouldn't want any other spontaneous combustions tonight."

There wasn't much left of Uldred's tent. A few of the remaining half-burned supports were already crumbling. And – there.

The book. Her book. A book she had borrowed, once, from a hidden library in Alinor, and then taken once again from an unsuspecting Thalmor. She sighed in contempt. "It appears that this Uldred didn't even bother to try to avoid triggering the set-traps."

"You put traps in your books?" another mage asked, shocked. "But why?"

"Because knowledge is best preserved in the minds of those clever enough to utilize it properly, of course," Amanya scolded. She pulled the book toward herself, a sliver of effort that took more out of herself than she expected, and examined the fine, spidery writing on it. "Why was he trying to read this? It's a treatise on sunbirds."

"We have company," the other mage muttered nervously. Now that the dangerous explosion-prone magefires were out, people were starting to drift over and gawk. "I think it's time to get our guest out of sight before people come to the wrong – or, in this case, absolutely correct – conclusions."

"I do believe you're right," Wynne agreed, cheerfully cutting Amanya's protests off.

* * *

Amanya dreamed. She stood in a brilliant silver city. The breeze carried a faint scent of roses and the soft susurrus of finely-webbed wings. The sky was lit from two separate directions, dawn and dusk, and the familiar twin moons hung, unmoving, in the sky.

"I would like some answers, please," she said. "If it would please my Lady."

"It would please your lady." A violet, bat-winged daedroth landed beside her. The Winged Twilight's stinger-tipped tail whipped around Amanya's legs lightly. "We have been waiting for you."

"Waiting how?" Amanya asked, when an angry shrieking roar echoed around her. Reality rippled under the force of that sound. The world dropped out from under her, and she fell through a grey nothingness.

Dirt.

There was dirt under her fingers. Little stones poked at her cheek. She scrambled to her knees, and then fell backwards when she looked up.

There was a dragon. An enormous, clawed, vicious beast of a thing in the shape of a god eyed her malevolently. Or perhaps it did not see her at all. She could hear it, a thin chiming not-song drawing her attention to itself.

Oh.

High above her head, Urthemiel screamed savagely, and around his feet swarmed great masses of darkspawn, hateful and infinite. The profanity of the Blight, the corruption itself, hissed and gurgled malevolently around its victims.

_Oh. _

Words came unbidden to her mind.

**IT IS NOT A BLIGHT**.

Creation of the profane from the sacred. A punishment for the overstepping of bounds, for the discovery of the truth, hidden in a golden city in the center of dreams.

**IT IS MY HOUSE. **

The core of this world was a rotten poison. Had the Golden City of Wynne's tales ever existed, or had it been a mere pipe dream, to wither away in the shadow of cold reality?

**I AM THE SHARMAT. **

It was not the Sharmat. The Sharmat was the dreaming echo of a dead god. This… this was something else entirely. This was strength, and beauty, and blood, bound together and become real and corrupted by the Blight of a vanished god. The Maker was foul. The Maker was a deceitful lie. The Maker was not the Maker.

Rebel and the Ruling King. One and One. Could you ever tell if they switched places? What did it matter? The Maker was the Maker, the One God lost, mirror to Lorkhan, deceiver of Et'Ada, the other ancestor-gods who had been bound up and locked away from their own creation. Witness the home of the Creator once-shining.

The implications were astounding.

This dream made no sense.

Amanya woke up.

A dream. It had been a dream.

A psychic dream? A sign, then, or prophecy, from Auriel or Azura. Or neither. Azura was known for sending prophetic dreams, but Her influence here was not strong. Auriel… Auriel was bound to Nirn.

Amanya snorted quietly to herself. What rubbish. How arrogant of her, to presume that the idle fancies her sleeping mind dreamt up were actually messages from her patrons.

The encampment was quiet; Wynne was still on the battelfield. Amanya chanced a quick peek outside. It was several hours to dawn yet. She returned to her bed and tried to sleep again.

* * *

"I think the men are supposed to be somewhere over here?" Amell pointed uncertainly, glancing at his map.

They rounded a short cliff and walked straight into the half-ruined bulk of what appeared to be a miniature battlespire cradled in a the cratered remains of a small valley.

"Where did this come from?" Amanya wondered, trying to piece together an image of the 'spire before its crash. If she could find its slipstream navigators…

"Wouldn't we all like to know." Alistair prodded at a twisted piece of metal and crystal half-embedded into the ground, keeping an eye on his surroundings. Wynne dodged as a half-melted globule of metal catapulted itself off. They all kept their hands off the wreckage after that.

"Welcome. This is the place of the Ash Lady you've invaded." They all jumped at the sound of Morrigan's voice.

"Ash Lady?" Amell sounded fascinated, like a farmboy on his first trip to the local market. "Another Witch of the Wilds? Is she associated with the Chasind?"

Morrigan laughed. "Now there's a boy with a mind of his own, unlike-"

"Get to the point," Amanya interrupted crossly. "Who is the Ash Lady, where is she, and what is this 'spire of hers?"

"You've _seen_ things like these before?" Alistair asked incredulously.

"The men you have been searching for are certainly around here," Morrigan continued blithely. "As to how soon you'll find them – well, you could use some help there."

"Excellent. Lead on," Amell agreed. There wasn't much talking after that.

As they walked on, the pieces of wreckage grew bigger. Large scraps of twisted struts of some unknown Dwemer metal laced with ebony cables dominated the view. They passed by a few half-destroyed teleport platforms, and once the remains of an enchanting laboratory.

In the center of the wreckage, cradled by great exposed wires and twisted tubing, sat the core of the ship, a pair of mostly-intact engines lying in their cradles trailing off behind. A tiny fire burned in a brazier in front of the only door Amanya could see. And beside it, her back to the company, sat the Ash Lady, swathed in several enormous, formless swathes of cloth.

"Are you the Ash Lady?" Alistair asked, cementing his status as Ser Obvious.

"One would certainly think so, little knight," a harsh voice added. The cloaked figure picked its way through the battered exposed pipes towards them, face hidden behind a fibrous cephalopod helm. "But experience is often a far cry from expectation."

Wynne was the first to speak. "I must apologize for our sudden interruption. We were only searching for our lost scouts."

The Ash Lady waved a gloved hand in dismissal. "No need," she murmured. "Your interruption was bound to happen sooner or later. No, I would rather ask what one of the Altmer is doing here, so far away from the starry-heart."

"Starry-heart," Amanya echoed, a sinking feeling in her gut. "You're from Tamriel."

The Ash Lady chuckled. "I am. You stand in the presence of the Ash Lady, Dwemer expert and tinkerer extraordinaire. Come, sit. We have much to discuss."


End file.
